


The Odds

by Bofur1



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Brotherly Angst, Coma, Doctors & Physicians, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst and Humor, Gen, Major Character Injury, Stubborn Óin, Tree Climbing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-07
Updated: 2014-03-07
Packaged: 2018-01-14 21:20:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1279252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bofur1/pseuds/Bofur1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Óin may be a doctor, but he's just as susceptible to injury as the rest in the Company. When he eventually does get hurt, Glóin finds that doctors are probably <em>the worst<em> patients in all of Middle Earth.</em></em></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Odds

The Company was camped on the outer rim of Mirkwood forest, having edged their way down the Carrock only a few hours earlier. Most were eating companionably or sleeping, but in one corner Glóin stood, pacing back and forth, waving his hands, while his older brother sat on a rock with his thickly-bandaged right leg stretched in front of him.

When the Dwarves had been descending the great stone cliff upon which the Eagles had dropped them, Óin had slipped, somersaulting down the long stairway and tearing open his calf on the edge of a sharp rock. Now, Óin and Glóin were arguing severely. It was blatant what needed to be done, but now the question was: who would do it?

“Really, Glóin, it’s not a big deal! I’ve handled injuries like this before!” Óin griped.

“On other people, maybe, but not yourself!” Glóin objected. “Do you know how painful it’ll be?”

“I’ve been a doctor how many years, Glóin?”

It was a rhetorical question but Glóin still answered, sulkily. “Seventy-five.”

“What?” Óin scooped up his hearing trumpet and put it to his ear.

“Seventy-five!” Glóin shouted, catching his cousin Thorin’s ice-blue gaze. The Mountain Heir narrowed his eyes speculatively at Glóin, who bit his lip and shook his head slightly.

“Exactly! I’ve sewn up countless numbers of cuts and gashes just like this one; I know how to do it.”

“But you _also_ know you can’t see well in the dark,” Glóin implored. “Let me—!”

Óin held up a hand. “No, no, we don’t go there. Just stop it.” Óin turned his body, wincing slightly as his injured leg protested, but forced his face to smooth before Glóin noticed.

Squinting in the faint light of the fire, Óin scanned the ground for his pack of equipment. After a few moments, he lifted his head with a growl.

“ _Glóin_...”

Glóin shrugged offhandedly. “I don’t know where it is. Nori was the one who hid it...after I paid him.”

Óin whipped his head around to give his brother a withering glare. “Then pay him to give it back!”

“You’re not going to get any of it if you don’t listen to me,” Glóin declared stubbornly. “ _I’m_ going to sew you up, there’s nothing you can do to convince me otherwise, and if you don’t stop being such a bolshie sourpuss I’ll have Dwalin blow your lights out so I can get it done.”

“It’s a conspiracy.”

Glóin nodded tersely in agreement. “That’s exactly what it is.”

“You...you are so difficult.”

“Aye. After 158 years with me, you should know that pretty well.” Glóin smirked. “Now, are you going to cooperate or do I have to pull Dwalin away from his supper? The odds are that won’t go over well and I’ll blame everything on you.”

Óin thrust himself to his feet, wobbling there for a moment on his one straight leg and his one awkwardly bent one. His eyes burned in smoldering anger.

“Listen to me, Glóin!” he growled. “If you had any interest in being a doctor for me or anyone else, you should’ve said something years ago. I’m not going to surrender myself just because of a dirty trick you decided to play with your pal Nori. _The odds_ are that I’ll find my supplies before you do and if you try to get Dwalin to come after me, you do it at your _own_ risk.”

Glóin was silent, his smirk gone. Óin nodded satisfaction. “Right then. I’m off.” He pivoted and staggered toward the Forest, hoping that his limp didn’t show too much in his gait.

“Óin, don’t go in there!” came Glóin’s yell. Óin ignored him. He wasn’t planning on going in, just searching the branches nearest the camp. It would be just like Nori to shinny up a tree and hang his satchel on one of the higher branches.

Óin stopped below the stretching branches of the outer rim of Mirkwood. He squinted. The light of the campfire just barely illuminated this area of the camp. Even if it had been closer, there was something about the presence of Mirkwood that dimmed things considerably—everything except the throbbing of his wound, Óin noted with a grimace.

 _Get out of your pity puddle. Remember the last line of the Burglar’s Contract? Lacerations, eviscerations, incineration...you can’t expect any different_.

Shaking his mind free of the self-commiserating outlook, Óin lifted his head and chuckled softly.

“There you are,” he observed.

A breeze picked up, causing Óin’s pack to sway innocently above his head. Nori had gone easy on Óin...this time. Now Óin was forced to wonder how he was going to get the pack down. He studied the situation, shifting to different angles.

Exhaling slowly, he approached the base of the tree and grasped two of the lower branches. This was going to hurt, but it was worth it, Óin convinced himself. He took a moment to steel himself and then pushed off the ground.

A gasp of pain burst from his throat, but he gritted his teeth and steadied himself in the tree. Climbing higher inch by inch, Óin focused all his energies on the pack hanging just away from his hand. He wished that, by some magic that it would simply come to him, but of course it didn’t. Cursing slightly, the doctor strained forward, trying to hook his fingers around the pack’s strap.

When he finally succeeded, Óin barely even had time to smile before he pitched forward and hit the ground. The world blanked for a few moments and then Glóin was in front of him.

“Óin, you—you—” Glóin sputtered, his large hands squeezing Óin’s shoulders. “I thought you wouldn’t—ugh, never mind!”

“What’re you talking about, brother?” he demanded, pushing Glóin’s hands away. “Surely I’ve only been dazed for a couple of minutes!”

Glóin gaped at him. “Five days!” he snapped furiously. “You’ve been unconscious _for five days_!”

Óin blinked in disbelief and saw it, behind Glóin’s anger: raw, deep-set fear. Óin felt shame stir for worrying his brother and lowered his eyes to see crooked black thread.

“Oh. I see you got my leg stitched up,” Óin mumbled. His eyes flickered up to Glóin’s face. “Glóin...I’m—” The rest of his apology was swallowed as he got a mouthful of Glóin’s beard.

Despite Óin’s muffled, disgusted exclamations, Glóin only kept tightening his embrace, growling against his brother’s ear. “You do that again and I’ll...I’ll...” His voice thickened and then broke to a whisper. “You’re the only piece of home I’ve got out here. So take care of yourself!”

Óin nodded, carefully pulling away. “I will,” he promised, poking Glóin’s chest as he added sternly, “as long as my pack is in easy reach!”

“If not,” Glóin reminded him, “you’ve always got me.”

“The two of us against every single danger in the wilderness,” Óin’s mused. He closed his eyes and then opened them with a smile a few moments later. “The portents say...those are pretty good odds.”

Glóin grinned.


End file.
